On this cloudy afternoon
rain taps upon the window pane
a light yet quite insistant tune
which washes off the pollen's stain.

In my recliner I look out
from here in this familiar room
at new green unfurled all about
and see black berries are in bloom.

So these are the between days
between winter's cold and summer's heat
between crisp skies humid haze.
Cool weather is in full retreat.

Alas, this time is not my own
for I am in my later fall
when bones rustle with a popping tone.
I'm well beyond my harvest ball.

I see My winter before me;
what hair I have is white as snow.
I'm somewhat like an ancient tree
uncertain when, but sure I'll go.

But I have here in my lap
the very first day of a spring :
my grandson taking a small nap
who coos and smiles while he's dreaming.

So now I straddle two betweens
one of days and one of time
one of white, one of fresh greens
a final verse in a long rhyme.

Yet as my weight shifts toward days' end
and I gird for coming strife
there's a tiny bit of me I'll send
beyond myself : my grandson's life.